Jolly Jack

1847

JOLLY JACK

WHEN fierce political debate

Throughout the isle was storming,

And Rads attacked the throne and state,
And Tories the reforming,

To calm the furious rage of each,
And right the land demented,
Heaven sent us Jolly Jack, to teach
The way to be contented.

Jack's bed was straw, 'twas warm and soft,
His chair, a three-legged stool;

His broken jug was emptied oft,
Yet, somehow, always full.

His mistress' portrait decked the wall,

His mirror had a crack;

Yet, gay and glad, though this was all
His wealth, lived Jolly Jack.

To give advice to avarice,

Teach pride its mean condition,
And preach good sense to dull pretence,
Was honest Jack's high mission.
Our simple statesman found his rule
Of moral in the flagon,

And held his philosophic school

Beneath the "George and Dragon."

When village Solons cursed the Lords,
And called the malt-tax sinful,
Jack heeded not their angry words,
But smiled and drank his skinful.
And when men wasted health and life,
In search of rank and riches,
Jack marched aloof the paltry strife.
And wore his threadbare breeches.

"I enter not the Church," he said,
"But I'll not seek to rob it;"
So worthy Jack Joe Miller read,
While others studied Cobbett,

His talk it was of feast and fun;

His guide the Almanack;
From youth to age thus gaily run
The life of Jolly Jack.

And when Jack prayed, as oft he would,
He humbly thanked his Maker;
"I am," said he, "O Father good!
Nor Catholic nor Quaker:

Give each his creed, let each proclaim
His catalogue of curses;

I trust in Thee, and not in them,
In Thee, and in Thy mercies!

"Forgive me if, midst all Thy works,
No hint I see of damning;

And think there's faith among the Turks,
And hope for e'en the Brahmin.
Harmless my mind is, and my mirth,

And kindly is my laughter;

I cannot see the smiling earth,

And think there's hell hereafter."

Jack died; he left no legacy,

Save that his story teaches:

Content to peevish poverty;
Humility to riches.

Ye scornful great, ye envious small,

Come follow in his track;

We all were happier, if we all

Would copy Jolly Jack.

William Makepeace Thackeray (1811-1863]

THE KING OF BRENTFORD*

AFTER BÉRANGER

THERE was a King in Brentford, of whom no legends tell,
But who, without his glory, -could eat and sleep right well.
His Polly's cotton nightcap, -it was his crown of state,
He slept of evenings early, -and rose of mornings late.

* For the original of this poem see page 3840.

Hoch! Der Kaiser

All in a fine mud palace, each day he took four meals,
And for a guard of honor,-a dog ran at his heels.

1849

Sometimes to view his kingdoms, rode forth this monarch

good,

And then a prancing jackass-he royally bestrode.

There were no costly habits-with which this King was cursed,

Except (and where's the harm on't?)—a somewhat lively thirst;

But people must pay taxes, and Kings must have their

sport;

So out of every gallon-His Grace he took a quart.

He pleased the ladies round him,--with manners soft and bland;

With reason good, they named him,-the father of his land. Each year his mighty armies-marched forth in gallant

show;

Their enemies were targets,-their bullets they were tow.

He vexed no quiet neighbor, no useless conquest made, But by the laws of pleasure, his peaceful realm he swayed. And in the years he reigned,-through all this country wide, There was no cause for weeping, save when the good man died.

The faithful men of Brentford,-do still their King deplore,
His portrait yet is swinging,-beside an alehouse door.
And topers, tender-hearted,-regard his honest phiz,
And envy times departed,-that knew a reign like his.
William Makepeace Thackeray [1811-1863]

HOCH! DER KAISER

DER Kaiser of dis Faterland

Und Gott on high all dings command,
Ve two-ach! Don't you understand?
Myself-und Gott.

Vile some men sing der power divine,
Mine soldiers sing "Der Wacht am Rhine,"
Und drink der health in Rhenish wine
Of Me-und Gott.

Dere's France, she swaggers all aroundt;
She's ausgespield, of no account,
To much we dink she don't amount;
Myself-und Gott.

She will not dare to fight again,

But if she shouldt, I'll show her blain
Dot Elsass und (in French) Lorraine
Are mein-by Gott!

Dere's grandma dinks she's nicht small beer,
Mit Boers und such she interfere;
She'll learn none owns dis hemisphere
But me und Gott!

She dinks, good frau, fine ships she's got
Und soldiers mit der scarlet goat.

Ach! We could knock dem! Pouf! Like dot,
Myself-mit Gott!

In dimes of peace, brepare for wars,
I bear de spear und helm of Mars,
Und care not for a dousand Czars,
Myself-mit Gott!

In fact, I humor efery whim,
Mit aspect dark und visage grim;

Gott pulls mit me, und I mit him,
Myself-und Gott!

Alexander Macgregor Rose (1846-1898)

NONGTONGPAW

JOHN BULL for pastime took a prance,
Some time ago, to peep at France;
To talk of sciences and arts,

And knowledge gained in foreign parts.

Nongtongpaw

Monsieur, obsequious, heard him speak,
And answered John in heathen Greek:
To all he asked, 'bout all he saw,
'Twas, "Monsieur, je vous n'entends pas.”

John, to the Palais-Royal come,
Its splendor almost struck him dumb.
"I say, whose house is that there here?"
"House! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur."
“What, Nongtongpaw again!” cries John;
"This fellow is some mighty Don:
No doubt he's plenty for the maw,-
I'll breakfast with this Nongtongpaw."

John saw Versailles from Marli's height,
And cried, astonished at the sight,
"Whose fine estate is that there here?"
"State! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur.'
"His? what, the land and houses too?
The fellow's richer than a Jew:

On everything he lays his claw!

I should like to dine with Nongtongpaw."

Next tripping came a courtly fair,

John cried, enchanted with her air,

"What lovely wench is that there here?"

"Ventch! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur." "What, he again? Upon my life!"

A palace, lands, and then a wife

Sir Joshua might delight to draw:

I should like to sup with Nongtongpaw.

"But hold! whose funeral's that?" cries John.
"Je vous n'entends pas."-"What, is he gone?
Wealth, fame, and beauty could not save
Poor Nongtongpaw, then, from the grave!
His race is run, his game is up,-

I'd with him breakfast, dine, and sup;
But since he chooses to withdraw,

Good night t' ye, Mounseer Nongtongpaw!"

1851

Charles Dibdin (1745-1814]